


Tradition

by Tierfal



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:28:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maes has Christmas gifts. And a death wish.</p><p>[No spoilers.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tradition

**Author's Note:**

> I place the blame for this squarely on [Rose](http://prince-of-the-palmtrees.tumblr.com/post/69099323306/christmas-boyfriends) and [Hales](http://i219.photobucket.com/albums/cc157/tierfal/halesthisisyourfault_zps69ebb018.jpg). ♥

Accepting gifts from Maes Hughes is not unlike being handed an undetonated bomb which may or may not have been defused, the status of which you will not be able to ascertain until you dismantle it and risk obliteration.

Judging by the way Ed shreds the tissue paper with a blinding grin, he is blissfully unaware of the perils.

“It’s a Christmas sweater!” Maes crows before Ed’s even unfolded the mass (well, _small_ mass) of knitted red abomination in his hands. “They’re traditional!”

“To whom?” Roy asks—not just to be a snarky shit, although that’s reason enough; also because Maes has never given Christmas sweaters _before_ , making it denotatively unlikely that they’re tradi…

In another moment, Maes’s laser-eyed glare is going to bore through face and melt his skull.

“I’m sure they’re lovely,” he says, hastily unwrapping the package he was given.

Maes brightens instantly as he holds his up against his chest. “It’s a one horse open sleigh! But with a _mustang_! Get it?”

“How terribly clever,” Roy says. “I’ve never heard that one before.”

“If I didn’t know better,” Maes says, “I’d think you hated Christmas. Fortunately, it’s Elysia’s favorite holiday, so _no one_ hates Christmas.” The laser eyes are back. “Isn’t that right, Roy?”

“I thought her birthday was her favorite holiday,” Roy says, knowing very well that he’s stalling for time before Maes jams this sweater one of three places—that is, over his head and onto his torso; down his throat; or up his ass.

“Every holiday becomes her favorite holiday,” Maes says dreamily. “It’s part of the beautiful enthusiasm of the young and adorable and perfect and life-affirming and…”

Roy tunes out the laundry list of Elysia adjectives and considers Ed. Tugging the sweater over his head has released frizzy wisps of hair all around the boy’s face, and he’s holding the bottom hem of the fabric and staring down at his own chest.

The design on Ed’s sweater is a flamel—the frame is supposed to look like a wreath, with a winding candy cane in place of a snake. Tiny brass bells have been sewn to the points of the cross, and the winged crown has been replaced with a two-leaved sprig of holly.

“That’s actually rather impressive,” Roy says. “Gracia’s mother outdid herself this year.”

“Huh,” is all that Edward says.

“Put yours on, Roy!” Maes cries, and only those very familiar with his voice would recognize the minute undertone of an _Or else_.

Sighing inwardly and relinquishing the rest of the evening to the inevitability of sweater-hair, Roy fights his way into the wretched cage of knitted festive doom and tugs it into place. Gazing at an upside-down depiction of a pictographic mustang and sleigh, he scours for silver linings: if nothing else, apparently Maes conveyed his measurements perfectly, and it _is_ rather warm and cozy in his fluffy new prison.

“They’re perfect!” Maes’s shining eyes could be used for tree-topping stars at the rate he’s going. “Come on, come on, let me get a picture—over there, by the cake—no, here, by the tree—no, the light’s all… hmm…”

Roy casts a glance around the living room while surreptitiously trying to fix his hair. “They’ll stand out more if we’re against a blank wall.”

“Is Mrs. Hughes’s mom here?” Ed asks. “I want to thank her.”

“Later, later,” Maes says, grabbing an arm each. Roy is silently grateful that he caught Ed’s right; his grip is so tight it’s making Roy’s fingertips tingle. “Here, this’ll do it.” He positions them side-by-side just in front of the kitchen doorway and then bounces a few steps away again, readying the camera. “Right… hmm. Hang on, just take _two_ steps back.”

Roy rolls his eyes, gently takes Ed’s left shoulder, and backs up into the doorway.

Maes always looks especially evil around the holidays. “ _There_ we go. Say ‘Peppermint hot chocolate’!”

Ed says “That’s a little long,” and Roy says, “You’re a menace to society,” and the shutter snaps.

“Charming!” Maes chirps. “Oh, by the way—look up.”

Roy _should have known_.

“Ah,” he says.

“Oh,” Ed says.

“It’s _traditional_ ,” Maes says.

Roy swallows _So is me telling you to go fuck yourself_ instants before he proclaims it in front of a toddler, and Gracia cuts his tongue out.

“Um,” Ed says. His face is scarlet. He is adorable.

“Later,” Roy says, “we can tie him up in tinsel and leave him outside to die of exposure overnight.”

Ed grins shyly, which makes him even _more_ adorable. “With a bow on his head?”

“In his mouth,” Roy says. “So he can’t scream for help.”

Ed laughs, and he is stunning, and just this once Roy has the perfect excuse, which he sincerely doubts is a coincidence.

  


fantastic art by the gorgeous [Rose](http://merildae.tumblr.com), originally posted [here](http://prince-of-the-palmtrees.tumblr.com/post/69464236729/a-quick-sketch-for-tierfal-who-has-been-really)  


He tucks a curled finger under Ed’s chin, nudges it upward, and leans down to kiss him.

The equivalent exchange for this glorious moment, of course, is that, over the pounding of his heart in his ears and Ed’s soft gasp into his mouth, he can distantly hear Maes going mad with the camera, which means that there will be blackmail material for _years_ to come.

Oh, well.

He draws back just in time to see Ed’s dark eyelashes rise. They blink at each other.

“Shall we murder him now?” Roy asks, inclining his head towards Maes.

“Yeah,” Ed says. He jabs a fingertip at the design on Roy’s sweater. “Let’s _sleigh_ him.”

Roy thinks he may just hate Christmas slightly less this year.


End file.
